


Muddled Allegiance

by FadedSepia



Series: Gundam Wing Cocktail Friday [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Mint Julep, gw cocktail friday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 10:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Dorothy Catalonia takes the evening to enjoy a drink, and to play a bit of a game.





	Muddled Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Gundam Wing Cocktail Friday prompt for 29 March 2019.

Zechs rested an elbow on the bar top, chin balanced on the steepled fingers of his hand, looking at her sideways from beneath his mask. “As exciting as you’d hoped, Miss Catalonia?”

She spun slowly on her barstool, surveying the room. Despite having been built to appear as a quiet pre-colonial speakeasy, the lounge itself was raucous. Coloured lights pulsed to the heady beat of strings and synthesized vocals. Half of the officers were drunkenly rocking at their tables, or staring down into their drinks with glazed eyes. Most of those on the dance floor seemed in the process of trying to copulate vertically without removing their uniforms. Enough of the crowd had shrugged off their jackets that she could probably steal one and slip in here on her own next time.  
The minimal waitstaff drifted silently between tables and bodies, dropping and retrieving dishes, discreetly pocketing their tips, sometimes less discretely suggesting that some half dozing patron might be better off going home. Those behind the bar weren’t much different, with one exception. “The people watching has piqued my interest, yes.”

Grey eyes narrowed over a smirk as she nodded back to Merquise, watching the boy behind the bar from the corner of her eye.

He did not belong here. Not, of course, that he didn’t fit the build, the expectations that most of the clientele had. Slim, tall for his age – or what she presumed his age to be; whatever it was, it was too young to be tending _here_ – with hands that spoke to a working-class upbringing and eyes that broached no secrets. A study of quiet discretion. Black half-apron and a simple waiter’s waistcoat and slacks, the top button of his white shirt undone, with shirt sleeves rolled up. He blended in perfectly among the other bartenders and waiters, but he should not have been here.

Dorothy knew this, of course, because she shouldn't have, either. At sixteen, she could drink, but she wasn’t supposed to be drinking _here_. The officer’s lounge was off limits to most soldiers of Oz, let alone tag-alongs, and even her Romafeller connections wouldn't have gotten her past the door check if she hadn’t been on Zech’s arm. No one questioned their presence, but she could feel it, as she was certain he could; they were here for other business than the simple pleasures of drink and dancing.

Her escort sighed, discreetly tipping his mask up to make eye contact with her, pale blue eyes smiling, though his voice was tinged with exasperation. “I believe our business is concluded, favour repaid. You can see yourself back after I go?”

How wonderful; he was going to leave her here. That would offer her plenty of time to indulge her curiosity over the young man without a meddlesome shoulder-watcher. She demurred, smiling as sweetly as she could manage, hand resting on his knee. “I’m sure I can walk back to my quarters, Colonel, though I had hoped for a drink.”

“Of course.” He slid a hand into his coat, tugging out a card, black against deep red, and laid it on the bar top, white-gloved fingers sliding it over to the edge of the bar. With a quick gesture, he summoned over one of the bar tenders – her fellow interloper, no less – low voice just above a whisper. “Whatever she asks, to a point.” The young man nodded, palming the card, returned to waiting for when his services might be of need.

Satisfied, Zechs dismounted his own stool. “Good evening to you, then, Miss Catalonia. I appreciate your steadfast discretion.” With a slight bow, and the quick formality of a kiss to the back of her hand, he was striding out of the room, off to quarters she quite-knew were not his own. He was playing with fire, already too far in to realize he was burning. Still, if he would barter with her to point others away from the smoke, she was more than happy to accept what he offered.

Dorothy returned her attention to the bartender, meeting his single visible eye with her real smile. She admitted to being impressed when, without even a hint of trepidation, he asked, “What will you have, then?” His voice was lower than she’d expected, perhaps in an effort to keep his volume down.

“Mint julep.” That was her usual. Her test, as it were. Mojitos were popular, certainly, but the shredded mint left her chewing her drink, and the syrup most bartenders on base preferred to use never lent the proper flavour. A good julep took a careful technique, and a bit more patience. The mint needed to bloom over the sugar, gently releasing the oils, to really make the simple drink shine; an effect wholly absent from the quick pulverized, syrupy nonsense she was usually handed. If he could manage something even half decent, Dorothy resolved to see that the young man got what he needed.

Once she saw that he had reached for a proper muddler – wooden, no less – she swiveled back to eye the crowd. It wouldn’t do to get too friendly with the help. Some minutes later, a highball, well iced and garnished with mint, slid in next to her hand.

“Thank you.” The ice was a sharp chill against her lips, which she took a moment to enjoy before sipping. The drink was perfect: mint just bruised to add a subtle flavour; sweetened only as much as needed, so as not to mask the bourbon; just enough water to stay smooth without being weak. It really was a shame he wouldn’t be at the bar after tonight. His skills were impressive, most especially for a man trained as a pilot. “My compliments on your work, but you don’t belong here.”

“Neither do you.” He pulled the towel from his shoulder, ostensibly wiping the bar area down as he leaned in closer. His eyes – at this angle that fall of auburn hair wasn’t hiding them – were green, and dead in the way she’d only seen with real warriors. “It might be better if you left.”

Oh, how sweet; she’d found a killer with a conscience. Dorothy twirled the stirring stick, sending ice tinkling around the inside of her glass as she smiled back at him. “You sound almost concerned for my welfare.”

“I am.” Was she imagining the slight tilt of his head, the way his pitch dropped with that last word? No, she wasn’t.

A spin through her mental rolladex recalled no one who matched his description. He shouldn’t have known her. Was the concern genuine? Possibly because of her resemblance to someone else for whom he cared? On his own account, or at someone else’s behest? It didn’t matter, truly, but it was something to think over. “A game isn’t any fun unless both sides know they’re playing.” Dorothy took a long sip of her drink, even as she motioned him away to make another. “One for the road.”

This drink came faster than the first, glass audibly hitting the counter, with the payment card beside it. So there was a temper under the façade, after all? There was certainly more life in his eyes this time. “This is not a game.”

“Not for some.” A shame, really. He would have been a worthy opponent. Certainly, at the very least, a worthwhile diversion. She could only hope he survived this war. Giving him the barest of acquisecent nods, she slid the data chip from her glove, setting it atop the napkin beneath her first drink. Dorothy slipped gracefully from her stool, taking card and glass, giving the Gundam pilot another of her rare, real smiles. “Your tip. Spend it well, Trowa.”

“Good evening, Duquesa.”

There was no need for her to answer, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Trowa refers to Dorothy as _Duchess_.


End file.
